


Needful Things

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Biting, Body Modification, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Cursed Books Made Them Do It, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Jealousy, M/M, Marathon Sex, Mentions of Non-Consensual Sex, Oral Sex, Possessive Behaviour, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sex Pollen, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24591898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: Aziraphale has gotten himself into a spot of trouble with a cursed book. He's very insistent that Crowley stay away from the bookshop, that he not try and help him. But Crowley has never been very good at doing what he's told. Especially not when Aziraphale is in trouble.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 215
Kudos: 1143
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads, Crowley's Demonic Side, Good Omens (Complete works), The Sticky Stigma





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the sex pollen challenge on the GO Events discord server. I couldn't resist, since I hadn't tackled sex pollen for them yet.

When Crowley gets back to his flat at midnight there are three messages on his answering machine. He tosses his keys and glasses down, leans into the desk and presses the button to let them play.

The first call was logged at 7:45pm.

_"Crowley! Crowley, if you're there, please pick up. "_ \- There's a stretch of silence that sounds impatient, then a frustrated noise - _"Of course you're not there, of course, what else should I expect from today. Look, I may have - I may have gotten myself into a spot of trouble. Now, I want to reassure you right away that it's nothing to worry about, I know how you can be, and I'm going to be perfectly fine. It was my own fault, really, I should have known better. I was far too impatient to open up something new, I didn't even think to check for any nasty surprises. But it's nothing to be overly concerned about, it's just a minor curse that I've picked up from an old book. Which I'm quite on top of, absolutely on the ball and solving as we speak. Don't worry, I'm in no danger of discorporation, just a few days of inconvenience, and a bit of discomfort, and I shall be right as rain. But you mustn't - and please for once in your life listen to me - you mustn't open the bookshop. That would make things very - ah - very difficult for me. You mustn't come inside, no matter what you hear. As I said, a minor inconvenience, nothing more. I just wanted to let you know that I will be indisposed for a few days, a week at most. I'll telephone you when it's all dealt with, and we'll go out, my treat for a change."_

The message ends, leaving a moment of soft rushing, and then a click.

"Fuck that," Crowley decides. Because he knows Aziraphale too. He knows the angel - which means he knows him well enough to hear the words 'minor inconvenience,' and 'bit of discomfort,' and know that Aziraphale is waist deep in something bad. Something that Crowley absolutely needs to know about, or, worst case scenario, to dig him out of. He already has his fingers clenched round the Bentley's keys, arms shoving back into the sleeves of his jacket, but there are two more messages and he needs to hear them as well. 

He forces them to play through his phone, as he heads out of the flat and towards the lift. The second call was logged at 10:37pm. It clicks in as he stabs the button for the ground floor.

_"Crowley, please ignore everything I said earlier. I may have overestimated my ability to remedy the situation myself. I find that I wasn't sufficiently prepared for the results of being in close proximity - or not as the case may be. It seems I require your assistance after all. And since you've always shown up when I'm in trouble, I thought to myself why would I discourage that when it's become such a habit."_ \- There's a laugh that sounds just a touch breathless - _"You've always insisted we deal with our unexpected problems together, haven't you? And I've always protested, always said no. But you were right, of course you were. We should absolutely do these things together. So I would appreciate some assistance. If you would. I shall - I shall expect you, I suppose."_

Crowley really doesn't like the shaky edge to the words, as if everything had gone tits up while Aziraphale wasn't paying attention, as if he'd tried to fix his own mess and just made it worse, panicked, and turned 'minor inconvenience' into 'everything is currently on fire.' Which brings up too many recent memories for Crowley to do anything but concentrate on getting to where Aziraphale is, as quickly as possible. His fingers tighten on the keys hard enough to leave the metal imprint in his palm, hard enough to deform it, before he forces it back into shape with a thought.

The last and final message, which starts as he exits the lift and heads for the outer doors, was sent sixteen minutes ago. 

_"Blast it, will you come, you infuriating demon. **I need you!** "_

The key in his fist snaps in half.

Aziraphale has never once, in their entire friendship, sounded so desperate, has never demanded anything from him, has certainly never admitted to needing him. Which means it's bad, whatever has happened, whatever trouble he's in, it's something he can't handle on his own, and Crowley doesn't have time to drive. He stops where he is, grabs the layout of the world and holds it in place, and then _twists it_. It's a rushed, inelegant exertion of power, and his knees take a bit more of the impact that he'd like, but it gets him where he needs to be, in significantly less time than trying to drive. The pavement outside the bookshop is cracked, and ever so slightly scorched by his arrival. He strides over it and heads up the steps, only to stop with his hand half raised before it can touch the door. 

What?

The bookshop looks wrong, it _feels_ wrong, and it takes Crowley a second to work out why. He has to turns sideways and view it from the right angle, so he can get a good look at the threads that make up the angelic wards laid over it, as well as the few of his own that he'd put up just to be safe - that Aziraphale had encouraged, which had surprised Crowley, because he'd fully expected to have to reason out why it was a good idea to have protections from them both. The fact that the angel had been happy to let him protect the shop as well, that he'd let him tangle up his magic with Aziraphale's. It was a show of trust and intimacy that had touched him in a way he refused to admit out loud.

The fact that they even could layer their wards and sigils and defences around and over each other, without anything exploding, or catching fire, or opening a portal to somewhere strange and unnatural, had been a surprise to them both.

The angelic wards - that's where the problem is. Aziraphale's work is usually flawless, a mathematically precise layer of carefully constructed, lines, curves and sigils in seven dimensions, that efficiently covers the whole shop in vibrating strings of 'keep the fuck out, unless you're invited,' with only the barest show of being polite about it. Which Crowley had always found deeply amusing. It had felt so very Aziraphale underneath, where no one could see.

But this - this is an absolute fucking mess. Crowley has never seen anything like it.

It's like Aziraphale had put up the wards in his usual meticulous, complex fashion, but had then come back and tore them all down, and not gently either, not carefully. No, they look as if they've been pulled down with force, leaving stray threads of ethereal intent behind, frayed and ripped edges of angelic grace still sparking and glowing for want of a purpose. But then the angel had clearly come back yet again, and hastily put his wards up again over that mess. 

And it looks like Aziraphale had done that _dozens of times_.

The bookshop is a chaotic explosion of tangled wards upon tangled wards, with gaping holes hastily filled with yet more wards and defences, every space covered, and overlapped, and smothered by them. Nothing of Crowley's work remains, it's all been burned away under the sheer mass of angelic determination. Until the bookshop looks like the world's angriest connect-the-dots picture, with the picture being stark, raving madness. It looks, for all the world, as if Aziraphale has been desperately trying to keep something inside the shop. Only to panic sometime later and try to let it loose.

Or perhaps it kept breaking loose? Crowley had been worried before but now there's a cold, sickening panic in his chest, clawing its way up his throat. Is there something inside with him? Did the curse let something out? Something he discovered that he couldn't control. It was typical of Aziraphale to not say a single, bloody thing about what exactly the curse he'd run into actually was. To not share the name of the book, or where he'd gotten it from. Nothing that Crowley could use to find out anything on his own. There are millions of possibilities when it comes to curses, all the way from amusingly spiteful to grotesquely malignant. Crowley is the expert here, and he doesn't even get a hint about which circle the book originated from?

It had taken a while for him to understand that 'trying to protect you,' could look an awful lot like 'I don't trust you,' from a certain angle. But sometimes it still smarts, and it's deeply frustrating for Aziraphale to need his help, to go so far as to ask for his help even, while refusing to tell Crowley anything, and just expecting him to ride in and fix everything. Though Crowley may be partly to blame for that, since it's what he's always bloody done in the past.

He paces in angry frustration, then climbs the steps again, listens at the door. He prods at the edges of the shop, as carefully as he can, doesn't vibrate a single line of those angelic wards. He's lucky that he feels so familiar to them, lucky that they bend for him without ringing in alarm. When he can sense nothing at all through them, he hisses annoyance and slips round the building, trying to get a look in the windows. But they're all layered over with protections of their own, everything through those panes of glass could be a lie. There could be absolutely anything going on inside. He's very quickly running out of options. 

Noisy it is then. 

"Aziraphale?!" Crowley thumps his fist against the door, watches the wards ring under it. But there's no answer from inside. There is, in fact, a rather aggressive sort of silence. A purposeful sort of silence. Which he takes as a bad sign, a threatening sign even.

Crowley's always suspected that on any normal day, if Aziraphale really wanted to keep him out, then he wouldn't have a hope in Hell of getting inside, (not unless he was willing to do some real damage to the bookshop in the process.) Aziraphale may be an angel, but he's one that's spent the last few thousands years hiding things from Heaven, learning to think in loopholes and distractions and prevarications. Not to mention all the things the angel has learned from him, things he'd never intended to teach him, but Aziraphale always seemed to be paying attention when you least expected it. Crowley can't even be annoyed about that right now, because it's kept the both of them safe, for more years than he could count.

On any normal day that would be true. But this isn't a normal day, this is Aziraphale in panic mode, this is Aziraphale trying to do something on his own - possibly under duress, or while injured, or under Hellish influences. The wards are a mess of hard edges, tangles, and swollen lines, warped and twisted, loose threads drifting outwards and inwards, constantly shifting. You couldn't keep track of all of it. There must be a gap. Aziraphale has to have missed something. Crowley carefully feels over all of the edges. Hoping to find something, a hole, a tear, a seam that he can prise open. It doesn't have to be big, Crowley can slip in anywhere, as long as he can bend space through the hole, as long as a single particle can make it through, he can get in.

But where?

_Where_?

There - 

It's a tight fit, and Crowley finds that scraping himself between two sparking edges of ill-fitting wards is a deeply fucking unpleasant experience. He can feel scales pulling up and tearing out of his side, somewhere in a plane which isn't this one. He can feel the burning press of a ethereal protection biting deep, as he forces it outwards enough to let him through -

\- and then abruptly he's standing in a pained hunch, hands on his knees, gasping for breath he doesn't need, but now in the middle of the bookshop.

The place is shadowed and dark, all the lamps turned out. When he pushes himself upright it's to the sight of books, so many books, fallen and scattered where they don't belong. They've been knocked from tables, and shelves, left to rest in disordered piles that had clearly slid and crashed to the ground. There's a large, half empty bookshelf by the door, most of its contents in heaps, as if they'd jolted free when the whole thing was moved too quickly.

_"Aziraphale!"_ he calls desperately.

There's a shuffling scrape of wood across the floor, the sound of feet pushing their way through from the back.

The angel appears in the empty archway, a book dangling from his hand. He's missing his coat, and his waistcoat is unbuttoned, the small holes looking lost and naked where they hang open. He has one shirt sleeve rolled up, and his bow tie is open, dangling unevenly. There's a wrinkled dampness to him that suggests he's been sweating. He looks exhausted but unharmed. When he sees Crowley his expression swings between relief and despair, before finally settling on pained.

"Aziraphale, I got your message, I got all your messages. What the blessed Hell is going on? You look terrible."

"You," Aziraphale says wearily. "Were not supposed to get in."

Which isn't exactly the greeting Crowley was expecting. He allows himself a moment to be irritated - no, to be _furious_.

"Aziraphale - you _called_ me, you told me to come, you said you needed help."

"I know I did," Aziraphale says, and it sounds miserable, it sounds like a confession, and an apology. "I shouldn't have done." His eyebrows pinch in, and he heaves a sigh, as if this is the worst thing that could have happened, but entirely expected. He clearly seems to think whatever is happening is his own fault. It would be nice if Crowley was provided some fucking information about what exactly that was.

"You said you needed me." That sounds a lot like an accusation, but Crowley supposes that it is, because Aziraphale would never have said that if he wasn't in trouble. Of course Crowley was going to come for that. How could he hear that message and not come? Nothing was going to stop him, Aziraphale should know that by now, for all that neither of them have ever said it out loud, he should know.

"Oh God," Aziraphale says quietly. "I did - I do." He shakes his head, makes a noise that sounds pained. He sets the book he's holding down on a nearby table. "You really shouldn't have come. I should have - I broke the telephone, I broke it twice, I kept fixing it." He gives a short, helpless laugh that sounds exhausted, moves his hands, as if to tug his waistcoat down, only to realise it's swinging open instead.

Why would he break the phone? It's his only solid way to contact him, to call anyone when he's warded in this tightly. Why would he not want to contact him? Why would he tell Crowley to come - tell him that he needed him - and then try and get rid of him. What the Hell is going on?!

"You said you'd handled a cursed book, but you didn't say which one. Which would have been - I could have helped, damn it. What's going on? Did someone not want you to contact me? Is someone here? Is something threatening you?" Crowley lets the words shape his mouth into a snarl, glasses slipping low enough that he tugs them off completely and tosses them aside. "Aziraphale, tell me what trouble you're in. Whatever it is we'll fix it, I'll help you fix it, you know I will, our side, remember. That makes your problems mine." Crowley's moving closer, instinctively heading for the angel in a vaguely circular motion, he swerves round a table to drift all the way into his space. Only to watch Aziraphale's eyes go suddenly startled and frantic, to see him stagger back a step, knocking into a table behind him and flinging its contents to the floor. But he barely pays attention to it, doesn't even glance at the books left splayed open on the rug, and Crowley knows that something is wrong, that something is deeply wrong. 

He steps in close, tells himself to do something he's never done, that he's always stopped himself from doing. He reaches out, as if he can ground the angel. Calm him down enough to talk to him.

"Aziraphale -"

Aziraphale flinches, visibly.

"Crowley, please, you mustn't -"

Crowley frowns, helplessly, mustn't what?

The moment he's close enough to touch, Aziraphale inhales sharply and then all the tension seems to pour out of him. He staggers forward with a sound of abandon, drags Crowley in, catches his jaw in one unexpectedly warm hand and holds him still, so he can press up into his body, and kiss him. 

Crowley's whole world fractures down the middle, most of his thoughts cast aside for this - just this - _Oh God, this_. Which is everything he's ever wanted.

Aziraphale's mouth crushes his own, unexpectedly rough, shockingly desperate. He's making noises that can't mean anything but 'kiss me, won't you, won't you please just kiss me, damn you.' Crowley can't do anything but answer him, the only way he possibly could. He can't do anything but flail for a second in shock, before his hands are lifting, settling at Aziraphale's waist, pulling him in, mouth opening up for the wet push of Aziraphale's tongue, that tastes like strawberries and red wine, and cinnamon and ever so faintly of charring...and brimstone.

Crowley jerks backwards in horror, tugging himself out of Aziraphale's hands, which catch at the air, and then fist in frustration, their solid shapes trembling just a touch.

' _Minor curse_ ,' he'd said. ' _No danger of discorporation_ ,' he'd said. ' _Make things very - ah - difficult for me_ ', he'd said. Aziraphale, what did you do?

"What did you -" Crowley closes his mouth, teeth pressing together so hard his jaw pops. He swallows thickly, can still taste the angel on his tongue and needs a few tries to speak again. "What was the book?" he grinds out at last.

Aziraphale is still looking at him, expression hazy, pupils huge in the rings of angelic blue. His mouth is wet, still open enough for Crowley to see his tongue when it darts forward to wet his lips.

"Crowley, please." He looks annoyed, as if this is a distraction.

"What was the book, Aziraphale? You said minor curse? Was it the Eyeless Goetia?" Please, Satan, don't be the Eyeless Goetia.

Aziraphale attempts to straighten, though his hands shake a little.

"Yes," he says thinly, and there's so much in that admission. It's a guilty, angry, helpless sort of confession.

Crowley gives a low, horrified hiss through his teeth. Because he's the absolute worst person to be around Aziraphale right now. Because original copies - and of course it was an original copy - of the Eyeless Goetia have pages that are made from the plants that grow in Hell. The soft, greeny-brown shine of them something close to alive, and every one of them dusted with all the indulgent sin of the circle they were housed in. 

The book can only be safely touched by demons. It's designed specifically to make the recipient of the curse pliant and receptive, and appealing _to fucking demons_. Which means the longer Crowley is around Aziraphale the more the bloody thing is going to affect him as well. And considering the angel has been wandering around the bookshop in a frenzy of fucking lust for the last five hours - that's probably why Crowley already feels like his spine is trying to crawl out of his body. Aziraphale might as well be an engraved invitation just for him.

He shouldn't be here.

He shouldn't fucking be here.

His presence is just going to make it worse. If he stays he's going to take the gift that the book has left for him, whether he wants to or not.

"I shouldn't be here." His voice comes out rough, a croaking, horrified realisation made into words. He hates the sound of it, hates how true it feels, and how horrible. 

"No, you probably shouldn't," Aziraphale agrees, then lifts his eyes to meet Crowley, they're too wide, flicking between his own and the bookshop around them, as if looking for help. "But now you are - yes, now you are, perhaps we should make a decision about what we're going to do, while we're both in our right minds."

_Both in our right minds._

Crowley thinks about the messages that Aziraphale left for him. He thinks about the wards layered over each other, all sharp, panicked edges and desperation to keep Crowley out. He watches the tiny beads of sweat that have formed at Aziraphale's temples, the way his bow tie is pulled open and creased on one side, as if it had been tugged sharply and repeatedly until it unravelled. He thinks about the kiss, the messy, inexperienced push of it that had felt like having the ground kicked out from under his feet.

He thinks that the angel is very far from his right mind, and the thought is not a happy one.

"I need to leave," Crowley realises immediately. "That's what I should do." Because once he's away from Aziraphale his own desperate, restless itching will simmer down, break apart and fade. Without the curse, and the deeply affected angel for his senses to bounce off of, it will stop affecting him. It's the sensible course of action. It's the course of action that will be best for Aziraphale, which makes it the only course of action he can take. The world has always been simple like that, and maybe that's a bless - maybe that's enough for him to make the right choice now.

But the softness of Aziraphale's face has collapsed into a look of wounded betrayal. 

"You mean to abandon me?" he says thinly, as if he doesn't believe it.

No. Never. Crowley would never. There is nothing in the universe he would choose over Aziraphale.

"Yes," he says through his teeth. He hates himself for it, but he hates himself for a lot of things, and this one at least he knows he's gotten right. "You'll - you'll ride this out by yourself, and you'll be fine. You knew that the first time." He'd known it from the beginning. "You knew it when you phoned me, before this thing got its hooks in you, and told you that you couldn't survive without - without - before it made you call me again, and then again. You broke the phone because you knew I would come. How could I not?"

If Crowley had known, if the angel had fucking told him. He could have fixed this, he could have helped him.

Instead he forces himself to back out of Aziraphale's space. Though he won't be out of this thing's influence until he's out of the street at least. He needs distance, Aziraphale needs him to keep his distance.

"Perhaps I won't be fine," Aziraphale says stiffly, hurriedly, something dark and hurt and clawing behind the words. Something that doesn't feel like the angel at all. "Perhaps something will go wrong, I've been browsing in the back, I've been touching many texts on occultism and demonology that could produce unexpected effects in combination. Has this ever affected an angel before? There are so many variables to consider. Perhaps you're simply leaving me in here to a gruesome, painful death. You're leaving me helpless, Crowley." 

_Fuck_.

Crowley's ribs feel too big for his skin, at the thought of it, at the thought that he would ever - 

No. No, it's not true. Aziraphale will be fine. Crowley knows this, he's forgotten more about curses than Aziraphale will ever know. The book doesn't want the people under its influence dead. No, it wants them needy, and desperate and compliant, more than willing to be stripped and commanded and used until they're begging and crying for it. And the thought of it - the thought of Aziraphale forced to be that, _for him_. Crowley's shaking his head, as if he can force the that image free, mouth pulled up in something that feels like a snarl. He knows what Aziraphale's doing. He knows how many of Crowley's weaknesses the angel knows, including the worst one, the oldest one. The fact that he's using it against him, and so blatantly, makes it easer to take two steps back towards the door, boots sliding on the wood, away from the sight of an Aziraphale who needs him more than he's ever needed him before. Who needs him to leave, and Crowley will do that for him.

Crowley is going to leave.

He's going to fucking leave, because he has to, because if he doesn't then this is a whole world of horrible, disastrous betrayal that he can't be a part of. He refuses to be this, refuses to give in when he doesn't even know if this is something Aziraphale has ever even wanted - not just from him, but at all. He's almost at the door, reaching instinctively for that raw, open wound that he'd cracked open to get inside. He can wait it out on the pavement, he can sit in the gutter, feeling his insides twist with guilt and anger, feeling carved open and greedy and bitter. As long as he takes himself away from Aziraphale, who currently smells, feels, tastes on the air, like everything Crowley has ever wanted.

But he realises something very quickly.

Aziraphale has re-drawn the wards. He'd found the space that Crowley slithered inside, and he'd pulled it shut.

"Aziraphale." It comes out as an irritated hiss, too much like his normal, frustrated protest at Aziraphale making his life difficult, but Crowley's already quietly panicking. He slips around the shop, ignoring Aziraphale's pleas for attention, his sharp calls of Crowley's name. He's too busy checking every door, every sliver of exposed brickwork, every window - for a crack, or a hole, a space that the angel has missed, a place that wasn't visible from the outside. Somewhere Crowley can squeeze himself through, get back onto the street and breathe clean air.

"Crowley, if you just listen to me for a moment." Aziraphale follows him, sounding so much like his usual, sensible self. But his pupils are glossy black, and far too big, there's sweat on his shirt collar now, a vibrating tension to the whole of him. His hands are not gathered together, not turning the ring on his finger, or squeezing in apologetic uncertainty, as they should be. No, they're fisted at his sides, held tight as if he's trying to contain himself, trying to appear calm. And he smells far too inviting. "The sensible course of action is to get ahead of this, before the symptoms become too severe, before we can no longer control ourselves."

Crowley shakes his head, as if he can refuse the words entry. 

"Aziraphale, stop talking, I'm not going to help you. I'm going to get out and then you're going to shore up the wards again. I'll keep watch for you, from the outside. I won't let anyone else in. I'll be there if you need me -"

"I need you in here," Aziraphale snaps, losing his temper at last, and Crowley can't help but find some relief in that, as if it's proof that Aziraphale is under the influence, proof he's doing the right thing.

"No, you don't, you just think that you do. I'll stay outside, you'll work through it on your own -"

"If you refuse to help me, than I will find someone who will," Aziraphale threatens shakily.

Crowley spins on his heel and hisses, a snapping vibration of sound. _How fucking dare he_. Someone who will?! Does the angel even know how hard this is for him? _Someone who will._ Someone who'll touch him the way he's demanding of Crowley, someone who doesn't know him, someone who won't care who he is. Someone who'll roughly strip his clothes from him, who'll expose his soft, pale skin, and luscious curves to their undeserving fucking eyes. Someone who'll touch him, and spread him out on the bed, press him into the sheets and lay their grubby, unworthy hands on him.

Or worse, the angel will simply fling the bookshop doors open and take to the streets like this, too desperate to care who finds him. Where he could be waylaid by fucking demons, who'd drag the angel off somewhere, strip him and tie him down and _use him,_ that would treat Aziraphale like a plaything, like a toy to be abused, while the angel moans for them - _for them instead of him_.

Crowley's resistance cracks, shatters, disintegrates like eggshells and he's suddenly hissing furiously, something there are no words in any language for, and he has his black-nailed fingers curled around Aziraphale's wrist, pulling at him, finding the softness of his hair with his other hand, and closing tight until his head tips back, mouth opening in startled approval. Pressed so close he can suddenly feel the unnatural heat of him. Can smell the frustrated lust, and the desperation on him.

"No," Crowley says, fiercely. "You won't find someone else."

Aziraphale's mouth opens, but no words come out. He just makes a soft noise of agreement.

What is Crowley doing? This is madness. He needs to stop this. He needs to get out of here. He cannot let this thing overwhelm him too, or they'll both be completely lost, swallowed up by the curse's insidous demands. His hand flexes, loosens in the angel's hair, he strokes the fine, soft curls, finds them more overwhelmingly lovely than he'd ever imagined - he forces himself to stop, to let his hand fall.

"Aziraphale - " Crowley can't remember what he's asking for. 

"Help me through this?" Aziraphale begs him - _fucking begs him_. "I don't know how to do this, I need you to help me. Crowley, I need you."

God. Satan. Someone. Help him. Someone please help him.

Crowley sways forward and kisses Aziraphale again, can't stop himself, tastes the sharpness of him, more obvious now, the sweetness of his mouth gone wrong in a way that he hates, but can't help falling into it. Something in him cracks open, and all his protests fall through it.

"I'll give you what you need," he tells him. "I'll give you anything you need, you don't need anyone else." His hand is back in Aziraphale's hair. "You never needed anyone else."

Aziraphale's hands are on his waist, hot through his shirt, fingers shifting under the fabric, to press against the naked skin beneath - and all the air leaves Crowley in one breath.

"I have a bedroom upstairs, will you come? Crowley, say you will, please say you will."

_No, God, no._ If Crowley follows him upstairs everything will change, everything will be different. Crowley will lose something, or he'll take something that he hasn't been given permission to take. Downstairs is where they have built their friendship, downstairs with the books, and the sofa, and the endless cups of tea and glasses of wine. It's where Crowley has been free to catalogue Aziraphale's smiles, and his wriggles of pleasure, his soft looks of devious innocence and his endless streams of conversation, long into the night and through into the next morning. It's where Crowley has watched Aziraphale's glasses slip down his nose as he reads. Where Crowley has woken, time and again, to a blanket strewn over him, and a warm, indulgent look, a steaming cup that's been hot for hours by his head. A weight of history, and affection, and loyalty between them that even Heaven and Hell couldn't break.

He doesn't want to lose any of that. Not when he's just been given the chance to have it without being afraid.

Crowley has never been upstairs. He doesn't know what they'll be if they go upstairs.

But hasn't he always done what Aziraphale wanted him to do? Without question, before he'd even had to ask. Crowley has always known what he needed, has always known how to be what the angel needed. How could he possibly say no to him now? Even the thought of it is impossible, of course he's going to stay, of course it's going to be him.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley follows Aziraphale upstairs on shaky legs, feeling something maddened and furious still tugging at the base of his spine. Something that insists he shouldn't be doing this, that he can't give in to it, this is not the way he wanted them to be together. That he will hate himself for this weakness when the world rights itself - and Aziraphale might hate him too. 

He hisses the thought into silence, because the angel's hand is warm and firm in his own, fingers squeezing and tangling in a way he'd never thought he'd get to feel. He's barely a few steps into a dimly lit bedroom, filled with books and old-fashioned furniture, before Aziraphale is pulling off his waistcoat, tugging the tails of his shirt out of his trousers, undressing in hasty pulls, and it's shocking enough to leave Crowley tense with sudden, unexpected hunger. Which doesn't break until the angel lifts his hands, presses them against the sides of Crowley's face, drawing him in. Crowley meets him in the middle, fisting handfuls of his shirt and kissing him.

"Take your clothes off," Crowley demands, impatiently, around every hard press of mouth. "Take them off, I want to see you."

Aziraphale's wet mouth grunts agreement, hands dropping to tug at his buttons, to wrestle the white material off. They break apart briefly - Crowley's sharp fingers dragging the shirt down his back and tossing it away, pushing the angel's ridiculous under-shirt up to get his hands on warm, untouched skin. Before that's pulled up over his head as well, to reveal a chest dusted with white hair, and pale, pink nipples, the solid shape of muscle under a layer of familiar softness. All of it so new and so impossibly enticing. Crowley pulls him in, slides his hands everywhere he can reach, while Aziraphale breathes and settles his own over Crowley's wrists, encourages him to touch, to keep touching. He's not sure how to stop at this point. He's never had his hands on the angel before, and part of him is still convinced this isn't allowed, that he'll be punished for it later. Ignoring that part of him is an intoxicating thrill, it leaves him tugging at the angel's waist, and the neat belt still holding his trousers up.

"I haven't seen you like this since Rome," Crowley hisses, feeling the span of that time in his bones. "Haven't seen your body since you sank into the baths next to me - nearly lost my mind - I thought of you so many times since then, thought of you smiling at me, that ridiculous blush on your face like you knew how indecent you were even then. Like you knew what you did to me."

Aziraphale's soft, laughing exhale flares out around Crowley's hard kisses, as if the thought amuses him.

"Do you imagine I found you any less beguiling, you flirtatious fiend." The angel's voice crack and jumps, the words forced out between breaths. "The way you would drape yourself next to me, the way you would lean across a table to pour me wine. You had no idea how much you gave away."

Aziraphale doesn't bother to unbutton Crowley's shirt, he simply pulls until it parts, at the buttons or at the seams, he doesn't seem to care which. Before pushing it off Crowley's arms and going straight for his belt buckle and zip, knuckles bumping and nudging the rigid line of his cock, in a way that makes all the breath lodge in Crowley's throat, and then hiss its way out. That casual, accidental touch somehow too much and not enough at the same time. 

"You are an unbearable tease," Aziraphale murmurs, while Crowley tastes the pleasantly smokey sweat on the side of his neck, hums into the soft curve of his ear. "All the time, you incorrigible demon - ah - and you do it purpose." 

Crowley grunts agreement - as if Aziraphale isn't, as if he doesn't tease him constantly - he bites the long slope of Aziraphale's neck, while the angel strips his belt free, strong hands trying to drag the jeans off his hips. 

"You've always done it on purpose, shamelessly, you're unbearable." 

There are blunt nails under his waistband, digging sharply. It's never going to work like that, the jeans are too tight. Crowley still huffs encouragement with every angry tug, lets him struggle, wants to feel Aziraphale lose his temper and tear them, wants to feel him hotly aroused, and needy, and aggressive. The way Crowley has never seen him, and rarely dared to imagine - but feels so close to the surface now he can taste it.

"Un -" The rest of the word is broken when Crowley's kisses him, tastes the slick wetness of his mouth, the thrust of his tongue. The angel's fingers dig painfully into his hips. " - bearable, Crowley, would you please. I have no patience left." The shaking grate of his voice makes it true, and Crowley finds himself still unable to refuse a direct request from the angel.

With a snap, the jeans are gone, Aziraphale's trousers, shoes and socks, and ridiculous sock garters with them. Crowley's pressing him back onto the bed, touching him, sliding his fingers everywhere he's never had permission to touch. Until Aziraphale is gasping and calling him a fiend - a wicked, vicious, lustful thing - and rolling him in the sheets. Both of them are fiercely hard, determined to push themselves into each other, in any way that will sate the greedy, demanding stabs of urgent lust in their blood. For a moment they're both trying to win, both trying to pin the other to the bed, fingers too hard, mouths only breaking apart for hisses, and curses, and demands that they submit. Crowley has his hair pulled hard enough to hurt, and he retaliates by sinking sharp teeth into a rounded ethereal shoulder. Pulling a pained shout from Aziraphale, that he smothers with his mouth. Crowley has never wanted to both win and lose at the same time before. It's a confusing, heady sensation that has him laughing, which makes Aziraphale bite his throat in retaliation, then his chest, the tight, high points of his nipples - which leaves Crowley shuddering and whining, knees sliding in the sheets as he falls.

"I want you," he rushes out. "Angel, I want you, in any way I can have you."

"The feeling is mutual." Aziraphale presses him down into the bed, pins him firmly to the mattress in a way that feels so fucking effortless that Crowley has to groan in helpless arousal, hands clawing for his skin. If Aziraphale so much as touches the stiff, purpling jut of his cock he's going to come. "Look at you, look at you, you beautiful serpent."

The word has his spine bending, shoulders pushed into the pillows. He will show him a serpent if he doesn't get on with it. Because Crowley feels like he's going to die.

"Let me have you," he demands. "I've waited so fucking long. I've never waited for anyone else."

"Not yet, not yet," Aziraphale says fiercely, which isn't a no, God, it isn't a no. The angel's weight presses him down, pins him. "First I want to - let me, Crowley, please let me."

Crowley gives a huffing noise of agreement, to whatever Aziraphale wants, because of course he's going to let Aziraphale have what he wants. It must be the right answer because there's a soft sigh of pleasure at Crowley's acquiescence, at his obedience. The angel's mouth moves down his chest, and stomach, over to the sharp blade of his hip bone. A distracted, indulgent play of tongue and teeth that leaves the skin prickling and wet. And then Aziraphale's hand moves down to grasp his cock at the base, a grip of fingers that has Crowley's hips lifting, and jolting in pleasure. The angel tilts his erection down, opens his mouth carefully around it. Crowley watches in hazy lust as his cock slips in past the angel's lips, glides wetly across his pink tongue. He watches Aziraphale close around the shape of him, and suck.

Crowley's palm hits the headboard above him, teeth digging into his lip to hold a sound that will have the whole place coming down.

"Fuck, Aziraphale, hnh." He's watching, eyes wide and stunned and flooded completely yellow, hips trembling, pleasure digging through him at the sight of it. 

Aziraphale pushes his thighs open, a hasty movement to let him shuffle in and kneel between them. The long pulls of his mouth are still curious and slow, finding his way in the act. Though Crowley doubts there is any moment of this that won't destroy him when he pictures it later, when he fists himself desperately to the memory of it. To the way Aziraphale looks between his thighs, body a spread of wide shoulders and folded knees, the solid, naked stretch of his back moving as his head slowly bobs.

But the moment the angel picks something in the way of a rhythm, the moment the slow sucks and wet slides of mouth become indulgent, and intent, and purposeful, Crowley is lost. He can't help himself, his other hand flails downwards, finds those soft, pale curls of hair he's always wanted to touch, always wanted to stroke and card his fingers through. He fists them tightly, encouraging Aziraphale to be braver, to be bolder, with gentle tugs and sharp rocks of his hips.

"You filthy creature," Crowley hisses, all delight and lust and adoration. "Look at you. Look what you're doing to me. Look at how beautiful you are."

Aziraphale seems to take that as a demand for his attention, blue eyes flicking up to meet Crowley's - past the stretch of his lips, the wet rub of his tongue, cheeks hollowing in. No hiding the fact that he has Crowley's cock in his mouth.

"Fuck." Crowley can't - he can't - he's twisting a hand in Aziraphale's hair, pressing up and in, nudging himself hard down the angel's throat. 

He knows he's being too rough, too greedy, he would never normally even think of treating Aziraphale like this - never pull at his hair and fuck into the lovely shape of his mouth. But there's just a choked, wet noise of approval, and surprised pleasure, an awkward series of sliding sucks that have Crowley's thighs tightening, straining, even as his hips work desperately. He watches himself drive slickly into the angel's mouth, over and over, until the tension inside him snaps and he's dragging Aziraphale in by his hair. That softness of his mouth pressed to the coarse, red hair at the base of his cock. He can feel the twitching spills of come that pulse down his throat, and it's like no orgasm Crowley's ever had before, it goes on forever, and the sweet, shivering echoes that follow it leave him wanting more, wanting everything the angel will let him take.

Aziraphale, now pink-cheeked and wet-mouthed, is breathless and smiling in the sheets, as if he's done something unexpectedly marvellous. And Crowley can't argue with that, indecent thing that he is - but just for Crowley and no one else. No one else gets to see him like this. Crowley crawls himself over to him, the weight of his dick still damp and sensitive. He kisses the taste of himself out of Aziraphale's mouth, pressing into him, hand sliding down to touch him, only to find the angel's cock half-hard, hot and sticky in wet curls of pale hair. 

He realises that Aziraphale came untouched, while sucking him off.

The thought is so blisteringly, unbelievably arousing that Crowley catches the angel's waist and rolls him over onto his stomach, enjoying the gasp of startled arousal, and the gentle sway and bounce of Aziraphale buttocks, the way they're rounded and soft and perfect - and he's dragging the angel down the bed just to watch them jiggle enticingly. Just to watch his legs spread, his arms stretch up to snatch at the pillows, to fist them tightly and moan in anticipation.

"You have no idea what you do to me," Crowley breathes, leaning down to kiss a rounded curve, to bite down sharply until there's a weak, protesting - and then delighted - gasp. "What you've always done to me, angel, always." He digs his thumbs into Aziraphale's plush buttocks, tugs them open, exposes the naked, pink clench of his anus and gives a rasping, appreciative hiss at how beautifully fucking obscene it is, spread out beneath him for his pleasure. He's sinking down, opening his mouth, tongue sliding out to flatten wetly against that twitching hole. Which clenches under the long, slick glide.

Aziraphale's shocked noise is almost a word, the loud, wavering break of it mangled when his face immediately presses into the pillow in reaction. Crowley licks repeatedly over the core of him, tongue circling the tightness of his rim, then putting pressure there in hard, wet pushes. He's imagined this, so many times, having the angel pinned under him with his arse spread open for Crowley's pleasure. The reality of it is almost overwhelming, his whole body throbbing and hot with it. He can't do anything but moan, open-mouthed into the skin, tongue licking into him, squirming through that spasm of resistance to get inside, a quicksilver push that pulls garbled sounds from Aziraphale, and evokes the faintest press back into Crowley's mouth. Greedy, indulgent thing that he is, of course he wants more. He takes advantage of it, licking over the quivering flutter of his hole again, tongue gone slightly forked to slither inside, to cheat his way into that tight, virgin space.

He uses his palms to spread Aziraphale wide, to press his tongue deep, to faintly dig his teeth where he's wet and sensitive, in a way that leaves the angel whining and twitching in surprised delight. Before Crowley's tonguing him open again, spearing deep with quick, wet pushes, before closing his mouth there and sucking at that tight ring of muscle. It makes Aziraphale's whole body tighten - Crowley hums enjoyment and presses his tongue in again, a rhythmic series of quick, wet thrusts, enjoying the way it makes Aziraphale's thigh pull up and shake helplessly, one arm squirming under his body to touch his cock, to palm it, and whine, and breathe Crowley's name, in a way he's never heard it before, shaky and overwhelmed. Crowley knows he'd do anything to hear it again.

He draws back, admires the angel's tight, pink opening, glistening with spit, clenching at the cold drift of air across it. Crowley groans and moves his hand, circling Aziraphale's anus with a thumb before pressing it inside.

"You're going to be good for me," Crowley tells him. "You're going to open up for me, going to let me have you, you're going to let me fucking ruin you, angel." 

The pale head moves on the pillow, Aziraphale's gasping mouth revealed.

"Yes, Crowley, please, anything you want -"

Crowley slides both thumbs down, easing that wet rim open, just a touch more, until Aziraphale makes a sharp, hot sound of arousal, hips trying to squirm out of his grip. It makes Crowley's whole body tighten, cock a throb of angry demand where it's still crushed to his own thigh. Even though he's already come, he's never felt so desperate, cock stiffly red and pulsing sharply, balls an ache of hurt at the wait. But drawing it out is the most delicious torture he's ever experienced, a knife edge of pleasure, and pain, and excitement that Crowley is finding exquisite. He feels drunk with it, skin warm and sensitive.

"You have no idea how many times I thought about this, how many times I wanted you. But I never thought it would actually happen. I never thought you would let me have you, certainly never thought I would ever see you with your mouth around my cock, moaning like you were made for it. I never thought I'd have you stripped and thrown over your own bed, letting me to lick you open. Waiting for me to put my cock in you - because you are, aren't you? That's exactly what you want."

There's a soft, catching moan, a clench around the finger now pressing into him, feeling the subtle give of his body. Crowley takes a second to add lubrication, to push it in, spread it around indulgently, teasing himself to madness, before he pushes in another finger, so that two are stretching and pushing and opening Aziraphale in a way that make his whole body ring with anticipation. This is happening now, this is something he's allowed. 

"It's like you're giving me everything I've ever wanted. Do you know what that does to me, angel? Do you know how greedy that makes me?"

Has Aziraphale really never done anything like this before? Has he never been touched, never been kissed, never been worshipped like he deserves. It seems impossible, a fucking tragedy. Crowley doesn't know how the world could have passed him by for six thousand years, could ever not have noticed, and seen, and coveted him desperately, like Crowley does. But he won't ask - can't ask, there's no room in his head at the moment for the shape of it, for the accusation it will bring to all of this, for the brute it will make of him. Not when he's pressing the hastily slicked and desperately hard shape of his dick down, nudging it against the hole he's tongued open, and fingered, and stretched, to make room for himself. He's pressing in - pushing slowly - feeling the slick, impossible tightness grip, and squeeze and spasm around him, while he hisses pleasure, and need, and selfish satisfaction.

Six thousand years he's wanted this - and it's _everything_.

Aziraphale gives a deep, moaning exhale as Crowley pushes his way in, strong hip shifting backwards for it, buttocks quivering as he takes it - takes it all, Crowley's name falling weakly out of him when he finally settles deep. Until Crowley's pelvis is pressed tight against Aziraphale's buttocks, the long, narrow curve of his body hunched over the angel's. Aziraphale is his, Aziraphale has always been his, and now they're joined together, the way Crowley has wanted to be since the beginning. He stretches upwards, buries his face in that mass of pale curls, dragging his hand through it and tugging gently, until he can find the long, vulnerable line of the angel's neck. He lays his mouth there, not kissing, not biting, just open against the skin, breathing him in. He wants every part of Aziraphale, every beautiful, familiar thing. He wants them all for himself, forever.

He's moving before he realises it, pulling himself free, the slick, heavy throb of his cock drawing out and then sinking quickly back inside. If anything it's tighter the second time, as Aziraphale twitches and squeezes around him, moaning his name into the bed. He's so wonderfully responsive to every touch, every sensation. 

"Tell me you wanted me, Aziraphale," Crowley breathes into his ear, desperate suddenly to hear it. "Tell me you thought of me, tell me this is something you wanted us to be."

Aziraphale sobs an answer, teeth digging into his lip as he presses back, encourages the driving pushes of Crowley's cock into him.

But it's not enough, he needs more - he pulls out, soothing the noises of disappointment and protest, with a kiss to the back of Aziraphale's neck. He pulls the angel up onto his knees, watches the position open his hole out, the flush of it already hot and slippery-wet from the hasty push of lubricant. Crowley sets the head of his cock to the give of him, and pushes back inside, the angle deeper than before. He catches Aziraphale's solid hips, and eases in and out a few times, so he can get used to the new position. But it's not long before he's simply taking what he wants, the pace sharper and more demanding, he's pulling the angel's body back into the solid, too-hard smacks of his hips. Crowley fucks him like he couldn't fuck anyone else. He fucks him until Aziraphale has a hand on the wall, bracing himself for every brutal thrust, and Crowley revels in the angel's wet, desperate moans and sweetly pained gasps of air, as his heavy balls and cock swing beneath him. 

Aziraphale is beautiful like this, naked and wanton and damp with sweat. It's so human, so visceral and grubby and perfect. It's everything Crowley had felt guilty imagining, everything he'd felt ashamed of picturing - as if he'd thought he could ruin Aziraphale with his own desires. As if making him this would hurt him somehow.

But there have been so many.

For so long.

He'd thought of Aziraphale in white robes, when they still showed their wings to each other without shame, all sweetness and nerves and impossibly affectionate smile. So innocently eager for Crowley to straddle him in the Garden, coaxing him to press his new, stiffened organ between Crowley's thighs, and into the first sex he'd ever made for himself. He'd thought of the angel pinning him belly down in the sand, black robes hiked roughly up to his waist, arse stretched open on an inexperienced cock, which strove for its own pleasure, and left Crowley to see to himself. He'd thought of a desert tent, Aziraphale in torn robes, pulled up and down enough to expose him to Crowley's mouth and his hands, and the eager pushes of his hips. He thought of the angel in the draughty rooms of a castle, still dressed in most of his shining armour, Crowley stripped of everything he wore, pinned to a rickety bed, while Aziraphale worked between his long, spread thighs, and kissed him, and called him his beloved fiend. Or the angel dragged up the narrow stairs at the back of an overstuffed theatre, half bent over a railing, with his hose dragged down, while Crowley roughly fucked him, as the crowd cheered and threw bread below them. Or Crowley on his knees in the back room of a gentleman's club, two strong hands in his hair, Aziraphale's cock pushing roughly down his throat in quick, greedy thrusts.

There are so many of them, and Crowley burns hotly for every one that never happened, every time they never touched, everything they couldn't be to each other. He thinks of all of it while he roughly drags those plush buttocks backwards, while he spears into the angel's body, and listens to his cries go high and wavering, cracked into pieces by the force of Crowley's thrusts as he chokes out his name over and over.

Crowley curves his body into him as he nears the edge, almost mad with the need to touch every part of him, to grip him, to keep him. He folds himself over the angel, as if he can twine them together like mating serpents, a thought that leaves him hissing pleasure and grinding in deep and tight. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale's stomach, as he shudders to a stop and moans into his back, open mouth flaring heat across the angel's skin, while he spills deep and hot into Aziraphale's clenching warmth.

He stays buried in him, still mostly hard and twitching with bliss, while he reaches down and strokes Aziraphale's stiffly arched cock with a hastily lubricated hard. It takes barely half a dozen wet pulls before the angel is whimpering, breathing a warning that Crowley is going to make him come. Aziraphale says his name when it happens, and it sounds soft and wavering and lovely, and not accusing at all.

They end up slumped together in the sheets, which are tacky and wet, bunched messily beneath them both. Crowley barely has his breath back before Aziraphale is climbing over him and kissing him again, hot and clumsy and impatient, dragging his legs open and squirming his solid body between.

"Oh, you must let me," he says fiercely, pushing Crowley's thighs open wider with a knee. "I need to be inside you too, I need to feel you."

Crowley grunts agreement, hands pulling at Aziraphale's hips, watching the thick weight of his erection bob enticingly between his spread legs. The forward thrust of it reddened and eager. Crowley can't remember ever wanting anything this much.

It would be easier if he had a cunt for this, he could simply tilt his hips up and take the stretch of Aziraphale's cock - just one quick shove and he'd be buried in Crowley - and the thought is too tempting, too satisfying not to demand it from the greedy angel attacking his mouth. But Aziraphale is already probing his arsehole impatiently. A tight little sting that makes Crowley shiver and rock down into the touch, almost change his mind. But he wants them to be closer, needs Aziraphale's weight on him, wants to pull him in tight while they work against each other, wants to never stop kissing him.

"Wait, ah, wait." He slips a hand down to cup his balls - only for Aziraphale's hand to catch his wrist, to pull it away from his genitals with a harsh noise, and pin it to the bed.

"Hnh, not trying to fucking stop you," Crowley protests in frustration. "I was trying to give myself a cunt. So you could fuck it."

"You are temptation incarnate," Aziraphale says shakily, and it sounds like both a compliment and an accusation. His pale hair is a riot of half curls and disobedient tufts, ruined by Crowley's fingers, mouth pressed and bitten red, eyes bright and eager. He's never looked more fantastically debauched and touchable, he's never looked more like he belongs to Crowley. He loves it, he loves him, and he wants him more than he has the words to express - but that's always been true for him. Aziraphale is the one of them that always has the words.

"Anything, would you just - fuck, angel, just do it."

Aziraphale presses a big hand to his pelvis, and Crowley groans when his body shifts without a touch of his own power, hisses a breath at the angel moulding his sex for him to use. The obscene, invasive intimacy of it leaves him gasping. 

His thighs are spread open with a careless sort of urgency, to make room for Aziraphale, and Crowley feels the shuffling of his hand, the eager jab of his cock where his cunt is new and sensitive. There's an awkward bump and slide across his labia, before it angles down and catches where he's slick and hot, and more than ready for him. Aziraphale makes a noise like Crowley has struck him at the discovery, hand falling away as he pushes inside. Crowley's so wet that the angel's cock slides in with no effort at all, makes his thighs jerk up and out with the force of it - thighs which Aziraphale immediately grips in both hands and spreads, holds while he presses in deep on a startled moan of surprise, before he's drawing back, nearly slipping free before he sinks in again. He moves after that in quick, hard thrusts that feel helpless and inexperienced. A thought which leaves Crowley groaning and throwing a hand over his head, gripping the headboard as his body is shifted roughly up the bed.

"Unh - fuck, fuck - angel." 

Aziraphale folds into him, kisses his gasping mouth, as every breath is forced out of it. He seems to be trying to slow the pace of his thrusts, failing completely, hands bruise-tight on Crowley's waist and the bend of his knee, pushing him open impossibly wider. There's a moan, and another kiss, then a desperate bite to his throat that breaks the skin, leaves him hissing as language deserts him entirely.

Aziraphale presses his forehead down into Crowley's, whines apology as their bodies meet in angry slaps of sound.

"Crowley, I'm sorry, I can't - you feel so incredible, I'm sorry."

Crowley pulls him in with his free arm, kissing him and shushing him, leaving a bark of laughter against his wet lips. At the idea that he could ever not want anything that Aziraphale gave him.

"It's alright, angel, it's good, it's so good, I can take it, I'm a demon - I'm your demon - fuck me as hard as you like."

God, Satan and Everything Else, Aziraphale definitely takes that as permission. He gives a long, blissful moan and spreads Crowley's legs wide, fucks him hard into the mattress, as if he'd been waiting just for this moment to pour everything out, to feel everything. Crowley gasps encouragement, listens to the sound crack and jump in his throat. Aziraphale barely slows when he comes, just moans loudly through it, body twitching and jerking and spilling into Crowley.

There's a moment where Crowley thinks the angel is done. But instead Aziraphale simply grips his waist, cock slipping out of him so he can turn Crowley over, and then lift him up onto his knees, before he's grasping his slippery length with a hand and working it back inside. Crowley ends up fisting the sheets, and giving wet, punched-out groans under every solid, powerful drive of angelic hips, falling into his own bent arms, to give muffled grunts into the pillows. His own orgasm is ignored, and it's overwhelming and thrilling to be fucked through it, shuddering and moaning and clenching while Aziraphale continues to use him. The angel fucks him so hard it aches, it bruises, it rattles his bones, leaves him jolting and moaning and hissing out endearments, and pleas, that he tries to smother as best as he can in the pillows. 

His thighs are wet, and the open spread of his vulva flushed and hot, when he's pulled abruptly upright, legs opening wide as he's dragged back onto Aziraphale's lap, worked down onto his cock with a startled cry of surprise, his short hair gripped tight, so the stretch of his throat is available for the angel to kiss, and moan into. It's easier to come like this, blood pooling downwards, cunt stretched open for every surging thrust, he digs his nails into Aziraphale's wrists and clenches around him, curses his greed with a joyful sort of venom, because it is fucking glorious - and when Aziraphale's hands go lax, in the few soft moments after orgasm - his third, fourth, or fifth - Crowley slithers round and straddles him, rides him until his body is sweating, and tight, and hurting deliciously. 

_I love you,_ Crowley thinks desperately - it almost escapes out loud, but the words are too broken to hear, crushed as half-syllables between kisses. _I love you, and I will give you everything you want for as long as you need it._

His sex is so full that he's smearing come in their pubic hair every time they part, the indecent, wet sounds ridiculous and arousing in equal measure. Aziraphale's murmured words of apology long forgotten, as he grips Crowley's hair and bites his throat, and praises the slick, tight feel of him, the shape of him, the blown-out yellow of his eyes, and a thousand little things in-between.

They spill apart naturally at the end, skin hot, chests moving to pull in air that they only need to speak, and gasp, and moan each other's name.

It quickly becomes clear that they've only stopped to cool themselves. It's barely a minute before Aziraphale slides down Crowley's body, opens his soft, beautiful mouth where Crowley is sore and messy with the angel's come and his own desperate desire. He ends up shuddering under the angel's clearly inexperienced but desperately eager mouth, and then again on his curious, greedy fingers. So much larger than his own. His need is relentless, desperate and hungry for more of everything.

Crowley knows, he knows it's a curse, he knows everything that's happening. But he doesn't care, it's not important. He has everything he's ever wanted, and he doesn't care.

Crowley fights Aziraphale back down to the bed after, presses the softness of him into the sheets, the palm of his hand cupping the angel's sticky, half-hard cock, moulding and shaping until the area between his legs is all soft folds, hot centre, and high, jutting clitoris. He fingers him while Aziraphale makes soft, pleased noises, then drags his own slick up to circle it round his clit, to leave it wet and swollen and sensitive. Until Aziraphale pulls Crowley's smirking mouth in and kisses him, kisses him until he stops breathing so they don't have to part. Though he eventually ends up with his head pushed down between Aziraphale's legs, putting his more experienced talents to good use. He plays at the sensitive peak, at the soft, delicate folds, he presses his tongue inside the angel just to hear him gasp. Aziraphale's exquisite, lovely thighs squeeze at his head, his shoulders, the fold of one arm. He pushes the pillows off the bed and moans and pleads and shakes apart on Crowley's tongue, so many times, until Crowley's jaw aches, until he can't taste anything but Aziraphale.

He is so fucking beautiful, his angel. 

Crowley slides back up his body, when there's a sharp, needy pull at his hair, and he has a cock again before his mouth reaches the angel's. He thumbs the rigid sway of it down, lets the head press in, the rest following it into the angel. The easy slickness does little to hide how tight Aziraphale is, and for a moment Crowley's gentle, for a moment he lets his hips sway back and then press in like a heartbeat. But Aziraphale's eyes are wide, so stunningly wide, and he's moaning as if Crowley is giving him everything he ever wanted, but was too afraid to ask for. He can't be gentle - he can't be sweet for that. He hikes one solid, powerful thigh up the bed, opens that new sex out until the folds of Aziraphale's labia part wetly around his moving cock, until he can see where he's buried himself in the angel. It's devastating, and satisfying beyond measure to watch himself drive in, over and over, the certainty that Aziraphale is his, that he's let Crowley see him like this, his body on display for him, open and wet for him. 

Crowley deserves him, Crowley deserves this and it's perfect. The sex becomes something much rougher, something possessive that Crowley would bleed, and burn, and hate himself for on any other day. He watches Aziraphale's body jolt and shake, the soft curves of him moving under Crowley's almost brutal thrusts. He has never looked more magnificent, and nothing has ever felt this good.

There's a punching gasp of his name, the grip of strong thighs on his hips that makes his bones grate. Aziraphale's fingers dig deeply into his back, hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to hurt him, and it's perfect.

"I would never have let anyone else have you," Crowley bites out, between harsh, panting breaths. Terrible honestly spilling out like blood from a wound. "You're mine, angel, you're fucking mine, you've always been mine."

Aziraphale chokes a breath, head tipping back, eyes rolling heavenward, and he's clenching, shuddering, squeezing Crowley so tightly it's an aching throb of bliss. It drags on and on, Aziraphale's pleasure a wavering, helpless whine that ratchets up Crowley's spine, until the sound is painfully, sharply ethereal, piercing in a way that rings through Crowley's body, coring agony through both his ears, and leaving him spilling hotly into the angel's fluttering sex.

Aziraphale drags him in afterwards, even as his half-hard cock slips free, he kisses him with his wet, uncoordinated mouth. He pulls shaking fingers through Crowley's hair, curls an arm tightly around his waist, holds him while he trembles with echoes of pleasure.

"You are my everything," Aziraphale says, sounding drunk and overcome. "There are no words in existence for the things you mean to me. The things you have meant to me."

It's too much, too much to bear, but it's also not enough. Crowley wants the angel to need him too, wants him to be hungry for him, to not be able to breathe when they're apart. Just like he does, just like Crowley does all the time - always has done.

"Angel." He sinks back on his knees, drags Aziraphale into his lap, hand moving down to grasp the base of his cock and urging the angel up until he can press the head against the slick, still-puffy ring of Aziraphale's anus, before pressing it inside.

The angel takes a gasping breath at the push, where he's no longer slick enough to take him easily, fingers curling and squeezing on Crowley's arms as he own weight sinks him down, knees folding as he's filled. Until he's seated, clenching weakly around Crowley's erection.

He urges Aziraphale up, before drawing him back down, encourages him to move on his cock, feeling the smears and pools of come still leaking from the angel's sex to drench his pubic hair, feeling it smear their thighs and dry in tacky lines, as a perverse sort of proof that the angel is his, that everything of Crowley is also in him. He tilts the angel's hips to drag and push against his prostate, until the angel is leaning back in his lap, his beautiful, pink, messy sex on full display, as he gasps and works himself on Crowley's cock, arsehole squeezing and clenching in hard pulls, until Crowley grabs his hips, gripping the flesh until his fingers dent deep and bruise. He holds the squirming angel still while he comes. Until Aziraphale shudders in defeated bliss and follows him over.

They end up sprawled together on the bed, exhausted and trembling, Aziraphale pressed to Crowley's back. 

Crowley wonders, in hazy confusion, if this thing is over, if they have worn it out together and come out the other side. But it's not long before Aziraphale's thick fingers are working slick and welcome against the tight rim of Crowley's arse, and it's enough to have him grunting approval and pushing back. Not over yet then, not over because he doesn't resist when they push inside, an exquisite, uncomfortable stretch that makes him shiver, that makes him part his thighs and tilt his hips back in greedy impatience, until the angel's fingers are sliding free, and his solid cock is settled into position, forcing his slick hole open and pressing slowly but unstoppably inside. He's not prepared enough, and it's a solid, stinging hurt that leaves Crowley moaning and desperate for it. Because he wants it, he needs it, he needs Aziraphale everywhere, in every part of himself. He doesn't want there to be any way the angel hasn't used him, hasn't had him.

"I'm going to suck you after," he hisses over his shoulder, which makes Aziraphale moan agreement and curl in tighter, bite sharply at his throat again, blunt teeth a ring of pain that Crowley could not be more pleased about, will keep the print of them until his bones turn to dust.

He's turned impatiently into the bed, one leg pushed up, so Aziraphale can get deep, can hold him open and fuck into him in short, hard thrusts - and Crowley knows he's watching it, that his head is tipped down to see where they join, watching his cock stretch Crowley open over and over, while he fists a hand in the pillows and hisses through the delicious, stinging burn of it. He comes on the angel's cock and nothing else, the solid nudges and jabs against his prostate wringing it out of him in wet pulses across the sweat-damp, tacky sheets. He shivers in over-sensitised bliss as Aziraphale's cock keeps moving, keeps opening him out - until the angel comes as well, keeps going through it in stuttery, shivering thrusts. He keeps going afterwards as well, stays hard, and Crowley slowly hardens again, with a breathless laugh of exhausted desire. After a while, Aziraphale is just gently moving inside him, where he's slick and messy and sore, but unwilling - unable - to stop. 

It does eventually end, with Aziraphale breathing a quiet moan in Crowley's ear, hand working Crowley to a lazy, final orgasm, aided by the slow, grinding nudges to his prostate. It's almost sweet, the build and shivering fall, and then Aziraphale is just holding him, face tucked into Crowley's neck, the twitch of his cock finally softening inside him. It eventually slips free, leaving the slow spill of come to trail the back of his thigh, and Crowley feels deliciously bruised, and hot, and deeply satisfied. So in love with the angel that it hurts.

The prickling edges of the curse flare once and then burn themselves out, the whole of it cooling and draining out of them, the compulsion to take and be taken, finally dissolving into nothing.

The desperate, unnatural, and overwhelming background of greedy, selfish lust is gone. Along with everything else that had felt completely real under its influence. The idea that nothing else mattered except the need to touch each other. The lack of any sort of boundaries, or understanding of consent - the need to make the other submit, by any means necessary. The utter certainty that Aziraphale had wanted him back. 

There's nothing left but guilty realisation, and the cold harshness of perfect clarity. 

It's shocking how much the world can lie to you.

Neither of them speak for long minutes, which makes it worse somehow, as if this thing is too big to fix.

Crowley's staring at Aziraphale's wardrobe, at the messy spread of his clothes on the floor, feeling every inch the demon he always protests he isn't. Someone who wasn't a demon wouldn't have done this. They would have found a way to stop themselves, or they would have found a way to render themselves unconscious, they would have tried everything. They wouldn't have left the love of their life bruised and filthy in every intimate way. Before he'd even found the courage to kiss him.

He hears a slow, shaken breath behind him and the sound of it is devastating.

He doesn't want to turn around, he isn't sure he has the strength for it. To see whatever expression is on Aziraphale's face, whatever he's trying to convince himself is best to show to the world. He knows the angel well enough to know that even if he blames Crowley for this, he might forgive him, he might insist that he was the one at fault. As if Crowley would care, as if he'd ever leave him for it. He'd only ever threatened, he would never actually leave. Where would he go. 

No, this thing is not Aziraphale's fault - Crowley knows what he is, and he knows himself well enough to know how much of this came from his head.

And Crowley will have to look at Aziraphale and know what he did to him. He'll know that he took his angel - beautiful, clever, funny, stubborn Aziraphale - and turned him into something base, and filthy, and perverse, turned him into a body to sate his lusts in, and he'd enjoyed it. He'd reduced the angel and all his many incredible, amazing complexities down to something that felt like one of Hell's grubby assignments. He'd taken everything he'd always wanted from him, when he was out of his mind, unable to properly consent to it, and he'd loved every moment of it.

"Crowley?"

It's very quiet, but the sound of it in the silence makes him want to turn into a snake, makes him want to slither away on his belly and crawl like he deserves. But he can't, the bookshop is still warded up tight, and the thought of abandoning Aziraphale now feels like unbearable cruelty. Not until he's told to go, if Aziraphale tells him to go - if he needs him to go - then he'll leave.

Though he's not sure where. Since there's nowhere on the planet by now that won't remind Crowley of him.

The bed shifts, moves beneath him, the sheets pulling at his skin. Sheets that are still tacky with their bodily fluids. Crowley's glasses are downstairs and he knows Aziraphale sees too much without them, but reaching for them, bringing them to him with a miracle, to hide behind, seems cowardly.

"It was my fault," he manages weakly, because the angel is owed a confession, and the best apology as he can muster. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come in, I shouldn't have -"

Aziraphale's hand carefully touches his own, warm against his knuckles, before his fingers are slipping between Crowley's longer ones and squeezing gently. All the words seize in his throat.

"Crowley, please look at me," Aziraphale says.

God, why would he say such a thing? Why would he makes Crowley do that. 

"Crowley, please."

But Aziraphale doesn't ask him for things - so he settles a hand on the sheets and slowly turns, folds his naked, shameful body, that's still sore, and sensitive, and sticky-wet with their cooling pleasure, and he twists to face him.

He finds Aziraphale still also naked in the bed beside him, fingers curled around a pillow that had escaped being flung towards the floor. His hair is ruffled and untidy, the softness of his mouth red down to his chin. Crowley's eyes note the curves left by his teeth, the smears of colour left by his fingers, and feels parts of himself break away - whatever they were he thinks he deserves to lose them. The angel looks tired, eyebrows drawn together in something quietly upset, but not angry. 

He squeezes Crowley's hand again.

"Neither of us are at fault. Neither of us are to blame," he says, though his hands are shaking a little. "We were both very stupid, we always seem to make stupid decisions - and always for each other -" There's a dry laugh that sounds confused, pained. "I don't want us to blame ourselves, or each other. We've been through too much for that, Crowley, please, I don't want that."

Their hands are still joined, so when Crowley's fingers twitch Aziraphale feels it, doesn't let him go.

"That wasn't what I wanted," Crowley says, desperately, because he needs the angel to believe it, he needs him to know. "Not like that -"

Aziraphale nods, looking wounded in some way that Crowley never intended.

"I know," Aziraphale says quietly. "I know, my love."

Crowley feels like he's choking, he feels like he's going to break open, and his expression must show something awful, because Aziraphale shuffles close, lays warm hands on his face, more tentative than they've been for hours - and Crowley realises it's the first time Aziraphale has ever touched him like this. It's the first time he's touched Crowley and meant it.

Aziraphale takes a breath, then leans in, very slowly, presses his mouth to the corner of Crowley's. The angel no longer tastes like Hell - and Crowley wants this to be the first time. He wants everything to be the first time.

Crowley shuts his eyes, and there's a noise in his throat, something complicated and protesting, and warm. 

Six thousand years and his angel still surprises him, still continues to be something Crowley does not deserve, will never deserve. Which has never stopped him from being Aziraphale's regardless.

The angel carefully pulls him in, tucks his naked, hard-angled body against the softness of his own. It feels so daring, so forward, to wrap his arms around the angel's middle, to spread his hands on his bare back, and murmur an apology against the smooth skin of his neck. But he does it anyway, he can't do anything else.

"We're alright," Aziraphale tells him firmly, as if he plans to repeat it until it's true. "We're perfectly alright."


End file.
